


Ask not of me to Let Go

by musicalgirl4474



Series: Whumptober 2020 [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: British Prison ships were BAD, George Washington is a Dad, Revolutionary War Prisoners, Sort Of, Worried Washington, prisoner exchange, ransom note
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:54:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26844727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicalgirl4474/pseuds/musicalgirl4474
Summary: Hamilton has been captured, Washington worries.Whumptober Day 2"In the Hands of the Enemy""Pick who dies"/collars/kidnapped(I went with kidnapped)
Series: Whumptober 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1956718
Kudos: 54





	Ask not of me to Let Go

Hamilton had been gone on his mission a week when Washington received the missive that shattered his quiet confidence. His hand shook, the paper clenched within crumpling. It was a boon that this had been brought by the last scheduled messenger of the night, he was not sure he would be fit for company at the moment. Taken by Red Coats, captured because Washington had sent the boy alone, without so much as a single guard. He KNEW, he knew that Hamilton had become a target for the British. And he had sent him alone despite that.

(That Hamilton balked at any indication that he could not take care of himself was immaterial, he would have listened to a direct order.)

And now he was a prisoner aboard The Vulture. Benedict Arnold’s ship. As always, the thought of his once-friend sent a pang through his core. If such men as Arnold could betray their cause . . . but no. Despair had never helped any circumstance.

The paper in his hands suggested a prisoner exchange, one that, under normal circumstances, he would communicate to Congress about. But there was no time for bureaucracies. He knew how bad it was to be a prisoner of the British; he had spoken with Patriots who had been freed in the past. Hamilton should not be made to bear it any longer than necessary. Taking a deep breath, Washington rose from his desk. He needed another mind, and he needed that mind to belong to someone who cared for Hamilton.

Crossing the empty workroom towards the door sent a feeling of dread shivering down his spine; at this time of night, Hamilton would be working by candle-light, ready to be called upon if there was anything in the late-night correspondence that needed immediate seeing-to. What he wouldn’t give to have the boy’s steady presence right now.

But that was the problem, wasn’t it? He was gone.

“Fetch Major-General Lafayette,” he commanded one of the sentries. “There is a matter of some importance I would speak with him on.” He only cared for the Honor Guard in moments like this, when all the rest of camp had grown dark and quiet and he found need for a message delivered. Though he supposed he would care for them if there were some attempt on his life, unlikely as that seemed. The younger of the two men (boys, so many of their soldiers were mere boys) nodded and moved away at a trot.

Nodding in observation to the other guard’s salute, Washington retired back to his office. He stared unseeing into the fire burning in the hearth, leaning heavily on the back of his chair. Little food, less potable water, forced into hard labor, kept locked with collars around the neck, chained to ship beams. These were some of the conditions that had been reported upon British Prisoner vessels. It was little comfort that The Vulture was a war vessel; it was unlikely that they would treat Hamilton any better. In fact, the general mistreatment by the British soldiers was likely to be even worse. He would give them a target to take their frustrations out on.

Washington’s hands clenched tighter on the wood of the chair-back, and he had to hold himself quite still to keep from throwing the piece of furniture across the room. It would do no good to cause damage to one of the few pieces of furniture in the army’s possession. The damnable letter was lying, creased from his fear, on the desk. Washington refused to look at it -the dry, impersonal language belying the fear it put into his heart.

Putting aside the dangerous amount of information Hamilton was privy to as his Chief Aide, the fact was that the British army now held one of the most valuable prisoners; a boy Washington could consider a son. A boy he was meant to protect and mentor, in some small way. (He’s been over-protective with Hamilton, he knows this. Any other man of his talents would have advanced through the ranks to a field command by now. But he could never risk the boy that way.) He knows there have been rumors; rumors that Hamilton was his bastard, or that the boy had resorted to sexual favors to receive and keep his rank. Neither was true, but oh how he sometimes wished the first WAS. Hamilton’s balking at Washington’s attempt to be a father-figure said nothing good about the man who HAD sired him. The boy deserved so much better than the hurts Washington inferred life had inflicted upon him.

A knock at the door roused him from his spiraling thoughts.

“Mon general?”

Lafayette. Thank God. “Enter,” he called, and his hoarse voice surprised him. He had not yelled, nor sobbed nor even felt the need to do either. Perhaps the silence itself had eaten away at the tender flesh of his throat.

“What is wrong?” If the young Marquis did not know him as well as he did, Washington would worry that his worry showed on his face. As it was, the white-knuckled clench of his hands against the wood of the chair had probably clued the young man in.

Instead of talking, he handed the letter to Lafayette. He watched as the young man’s face took on a horrified expression. “We cannot leave him there!”

“I was not thinking to.”

Lafayette shook his head. “He will expect that he will be left there, Sir, he doesn’t . . . he will do something foolish! ‘Is life does not mean anything to him. If the choice is giving up information, or dying, he will greet death like a friend.”

“If they are suggesting a prisoner exchange, they already have what they want or know that they will not get it,” Washington said, hoping it was true.

“Still, we should move quickly if we want our Alexandre to be unharmed,” Lafayette said, placing the letter back on the desk. “They ask for much, it is true, but out esteemed British prisoners are a drain on our resources and the men’s morale in any case.”

It was true that the British soldiers made for poor prisoners, eating much more food that would be their share, insulting the guards and any soldier unlucky enough to get close to them, and generally making a nuisance of themselves. The officers were worse than the common soldiers in that regard.

“I was hoping that you would see to the exchange; I cannot go myself, it would give certain rumors too much kindling.”

Lafayette’s eyes narrowed briefly before he clicked his heels together in a show of too much energy for the time of night. “I will see to it General, we will have notre leon back with us soon.”

Washington let himself sag into the chair as the young officer left, worry swirling in his mind. He wished he was a certain as Lafayette that this would be over soon.

**Author's Note:**

> British prison ships were really bad. More patriot soldiers died there than in battles.  
> And yes, British prisoners in patriot camps were really bad prisoners, so the patriots were vaguely happy to get rid of some of them at times, more so than the Hessian (German) mercenaries, who were model prisoners, since, you know, they didn't really have a reason to hate the Americans like the British soldiers did.


End file.
